The last two winters were mild indeed.  That’s typical of Cape Cod but every few winters, we get hammered.  So it is this year.   Every weekend we have a storm.  The worst part isn’t the snow but the wind.  We keep having huge winds off the ocean that bring down power lines and leave a great many of us without heat, lights or water – since most of us have wells. This coming weekend has its own storm.  Friday night we went for dinner  -- Dan and Peter promised us lobster.  A great meal and good conversation. This afternoon, we ‘re going to the big screen showing of Rigoletto at the W.H.A.T.theater.  It’ll probably be blowing and doing its nasty thing by the time we get out.  I have some leftover cassoulet from our solstice party in the freezer. I’ll take it out before we go off to it begins to thaw. Okay, did that, and put on the week’s towels in case we lose power tomorrow.If we don’t lose power, I’m hoping to start my peppers on Sunday.  It should be almost over by late Sunday. I might start eggplants, not sure yet.  I start two kinds of eggplants, the Japanese long skinny type and the Italian pear shaped plump type.  I grow cayenne peppers for heat, five kinds of bells and one frying pepper.  When the harvest permits, I freeze a lot of them.  Last year was a perfect tomato and eggplant and pepper yet – long season, warm enough. Right now, one of my crows is very upset.  I looked and don’t see a hunter or a dog or coywolf.  I wonder if there’s an owl. They especially fear and mob great horned owls, who prey on their fledglings.  I have rapport with the local crows and great respect for their social skills, their cohesiveness as a group and their intelligence.  They know me and call when something is wrong.  I still haven’t figure out why the sentinel crow is upset this morning. Whatever it is, I haven’t been able to pick it out yet.  I’d do something about it if I knew what’s wrong. Now the wild turkeys are upset and flapping about. I’m going to have to put on my boots and go see what they’re complaining about.  Much of the snow from the last several storms melted this week so there are bare patches I like to look at, but I still need boots to slog around the land. It was a dog, a rather large one, but he ran off when I yelled at him.  Looked guilty.  It was some kind of fancy dog, probably belonging to a summer person with a house here, but I don’t know what breed it was.  Largish and shaggy.  Now the turkeys are feeding and the crows have settled down. They don’t appreciate intruders.  THIS LAND IS THEIR LAND, they tell me, and I agree. They were here before I came. Crows have many calls, a culture in which they hand down information from one generation to the next, and they can sing.  Individual crows have sung for me occasionally, and it is quite operatic. It is a special gift when a crow decides to sing for you.  They generally sit quite near you on a branch.  I cherish all the birds here, the ones who breed here in mild weather and the ones who live here year round, but I have a special affinity for the crows. We have trouble telling one crow from another, but they have no trouble at all identifying special individuals.